I wake up on Monday morning once more tired. There was just so much going on last night, you know? The arrival of both Cyril and Joshua meant silence never settled, always another question for someone to ask them—especially asking Cyril about how I am at the school. Then we moved to the parlour room specifically for the piano there. They made me perform, and then they made me dance with my father and Joshua and even Cyril, and I’m sure Clarice snuck a few glasses of wine when we weren’t paying attention, attaching herself to me and treating my ears to lamentations of how she wishes she could go back to the easygoing days of schooling.

In other words, a brilliant yet exhausting evening.

My internal clock still not used to these lazy days, I lay in bed for a while, trying to get a sense of where the sun is behind those grey clouds. It’s not raining, but I think it will soon.

I do eventually get up as the lethargy fades away and go about my routine, settling down with a cup of tea afterwards. A moment of calm. With how busy it was last night, I didn’t get to talk much with Joshua or Cyril, so I’m hoping to catch them today. I’m still not really any good in groups. Clarice is quite suited to being the centre of attention, and I tend to fall into listening, only talking when asked a question.

Generally feeling better about myself, I take a bit of time to properly make myself presentable, doing up my hair nicely and putting on my usual makeup (when not attending class). Nothing too fancy, just a short French braid that stops at my nape, leaving the rest of my hair in a ponytail and a bit of my fringe loose and held back by the hair clip Evan gave me. Makeup, I’m hiding blemishes and contouring, a touch of blush for a softer look since I’m around family.

Ah, I can’t wait for Violet to come. She’ll let me do her hair and makeup, won’t she? She did let me at school, so I can’t see why now would be any different, and I can even show her off to Clarice and my mother.

In those good spirits, I head off downstairs. Along the way, I check the grandfather clock for the time: half past eight. Not that late at all. I mean, without computers and television, there’s not as much to keep me up late, maybe a good book. Loosely guessing, I got nine hours sleep? Decent for my age.

Breakfast served from nine to ten usually, I check if there’s anyone in the sitting room, and there are: my mother and father.

So my morning goes, talking lightly with my parents until breakfast starts, Cyril and Joshua join us and (a bit later) Clarice does too. The boys weren’t all that close a few years ago, but they seem happy to chat to each other now.

When the meal finishes, we somewhat split up. My father goes to the study to do the work he brought back with him, while my mother takes up her usual residence in the library. Clarice, looking like she certainly did have a few glasses of wine when we weren’t looking, excuses herself back to her room.

Just me, Cyril and Joshua, well, I want to hear about my brother’s time at school. His letters made it sound he’s been having a good time there, but has he really? I mean, he’s adorable and just the kind of boy that gets pushed around, bullied.

Knowing that my thoughts don’t get me any closer to the truth, I ask, “How has school been?”

Only eleven, he’s small and squeaky, seemingly more so now I’ve listened to the deeper voices of the guys at school. “I have had fun,” he says.

“Really?” I ask, suspicion heavy in my tone.

“Oh yes! Jasper is rather funny, and he likes to read as well. And for sports we do rugby, and everyone tries to get me on their team, but I always let Harry choose me.”

I flick through the catalogue of letters in my head. “Harry is the boy you sit with for meals?” I ask.

“Well, we do play together too. He can nearly run as fast as me and often challenges me to race him.”

Yes, in the one letter Joshua said the two of them knocked over a teacher and had to write lines for a week. But still, he’s so small, I have to doubt that anyone would want him for rugby. “Do they really choose you for sports?”

Oh he smiles and my heart melts, such a cheeky grin that makes me want to pinch his cheeks. “They do! I thought I was slow, but actually you’re just really fast—did you know that?”

Ah, well, I am five years older than him…. “I dare say you will soon be even faster than me,” I reply, never one to miss a chance to unnecessarily praise him.

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He giggles, covering his mouth with both hands.

How worried I was for him, a strange mix of manners and cheekiness, no doubt influenced by his two sisters. I’m glad we didn’t turn him into someone too vulnerable for boarding school. Small, but I guess not small for his age, and it won’t be long before he shoots up. The Cyril beside him is proof of how much different a few years makes.

“He was just telling me how you used to climb trees,” Cyril says, no further comment but for a certain smugness to his smile.

“I still would if someone would buy me a pair of trousers,” I reply flatly.

Oh he laughs at that, a dry chuckle, before giving Joshua a pat on the head. “You said you had homework to do, didn’t you? It’s best to get that out of the way quickly.”

Joshua sort of wiggles his nose, annoyed, but not overly annoyed. “Very well,” he mumbles. With a good day to me and Cyril, he shuffles out, not looking all that thrilled at the prospect of homework.

So it’s just me and Cyril now—and a couple of maids and a footman. I turn my attention to him, only he seems unwilling to meet my gaze. “How are you?” I ask, leaning to the side for a bit better of an angle on him.

He chuckles again, rubbing his chin (a touch of stubble gracing the odd patch). “Well enough, enjoying the new atmosphere. What of you? Are you expecting another guest, perhaps?”

I tilt my head the other way. “No, why do you ask?”

“Ah, it is just that you seem… dressed up today, more so than I have seen you at school.”

It takes me a moment to realise he must be talking of my hair and makeup. A giggle escapes me, wondering if there’s maybe an unseen heat to his cheeks. I hold back on asking him if it’s to his liking. While I do love a good teasing (preferably when I’m the one doing it), I know it’s a somewhat flirty thing to do and I don’t wish to make him uncomfortable around me.

“School is a place of learning, so I try not to provide a distraction for those with weaker wills,” I say, sounding as arrogant as I can.

My joke lands true, a snort coming from him. “How considerate of you.”

We settle down from there, sitting (not next to each other) in front of the fire and talking lightly. How our journeys home were, what plans we have, and I rib him for turning up a day early just to join the surprise party—and thank him for it, really a nice thing to have a “friend” at my party again after a few years since Violet last came.

When those conversations run their course, I return to what I was thinking about yesterday. “Say, what do you think of Sir Ventser?” I ask offhandedly, acting as if it’s just a curious thought that came to me.

He loses the soft smile he’s had, and he looks quite grumpy without it. Knowing him better, that really is just how his face looks when resting, a coldness to his features: the pale blue eyes, black hair, narrow nose and chin.

“I can’t say I feel one way or the other with regards to him,” he says, not as fast as he usually speaks. “However, I did not particularly like how he took you aside that day. From what Lord Sussex says, he speaks rather frankly with you too. If it were another boy, I would say he’s sweet on you, but the prince…. I would rather he kept his distance lest rumours start.”

He pauses there, finally looking me in the eye, and he raises an eyebrow.

“That is, unless there is something of a mutual sweetness?”

“There isn’t,” I say with a certain weight to it.

Turning his head away from me once more, he lets out a few chuckles. “Then it is as I said. No lady benefits from such rumours, yet royalty is certainly even worse for who would think they could get between a prince and his prize,” Cyril says, a poetic tone to his voice.

It would be easy to find offence in what he said, no woman (or at least not I) pleased at being called a “prize”. I know he doesn’t mean it that way, though; he went for the alliteration. It’s another part of his personality: for all he writes, he does have a way of coming off harsh. Doesn’t always think before he speaks when his brain stumbles on something he likes the sound of.

Going back to what he actually said, it’s similar enough to Evan. And I grow timid all of a sudden. I realise now that… maybe I shouldn’t tell him what happened because it’s not actually about me. Can I hide behind the excuse of protecting Violet? Does Violet want me to protect her?

“And Lady Dover, have you heard of her?” I quietly ask.

If he notices my change in demeanour, I don’t notice him noticing, his voice the same. “Lady Dover… I think I’ve heard her name, but I can’t say I even heard what was being discussed. Why do you ask?”

I lower my gaze without thinking, raising my head when I realise. “It’s just that she will be staying over on the tenth and attending the tea party. I may have mentioned her when we were children—her first name is Violet.”

“Oh, your old friend? You did bring her up the one time to say that you would rather be playing with her.”

I giggle, very much believing that. “You really didn’t seem all that keen on dancing lessons,” I say, needing to defend myself a little.

“No, I can’t say I was. However, it was a good experience,” he says.

“How so?” I ask, curious.

He sort of shrugs. “Well, the books I read made out that girls were all cut from the same cloth, while you are apparently cut from another type of fabric entirely. Your mother and sister as well.”

“Is that a compliment?” I ask.

“Who knows,” he says, humour in his voice.

But I know it is. I’m not a damsel waiting to be rescued or a reward for the hero after he saves the country, not someone who either clings to a man or sits quietly (or cries). Even in the romance stories meant for impressionable young girls, we aren’t exactly portrayed as capable, hardworking, or decisive. I’m not sure I’ve even read a book where the happy ending isn’t the woman marrying someone well-off (never mind someone poor but who loves her).

I’m reminded of what Clarice says: it’s not about being perfect, but being willing to change for the better. Cyril, for someone “raised” by nannies and maids and somewhat neglected by his own father, he is turning out well, isn’t he?

I wonder what Violet will think of him.